gregoire and his repertoire
stuck at home
going nowhere

because, of course,
his car won't start.

hrumph!

nothing metaphysical
just mechanical
which is, of course,
his worst nightmare.

who once changed
("a wretch like me")
his own spark plugs
and thought himself quite the man.
who once was lost
("amazing grace"
were i always so)
in boston.

starters and solenoids
still mystify him
they laugh, they laugh at me.

double hrumph!

eh, well
another reason to keep making friends
or keep dad alive on a respirator.

"non! va-t'en!"
the dogs laugh and the car
laughs with them.
"you have no choice."
see, it works
on dogs like greg
even when he doesn't speak
frenchese.

(i don't speak, i swim.)

je nage dans un courant inconnu.
it slips, this stream, into the past.
ask someone, "go back there with me
to a week in april?
(which is, ts says, the cruelest month
to sleep alone.)
You see, I swear,
I've only done, and I'll only ask
this once."
your ticket is paid, was paid.
just show up.

"a crowd flowed over london bridge, so many,
i had not thought death had undone,"
nor a cherokee mother could hold,
"so many." ts said.
six little indians
so precocious, red-faced,
yet shamelessly vulgar
and bursting with energy
knifed their way
out of the unmade womb,
tied her cord to the bedpost,
and shorted her sheets.
"housekeeping! i am in need of housekeeping!
yes, servicio. yes, please.
no, don't be sorry.
we were just sitting here on the edges
of our separate beds,
and my car is in need of service.
do come in."

could mr. ammons ever
in another one of his
“manifold events,”
lift the skirts
of a grey december sky,
pull the pins down from her hair,
let them fall
let them fall
from the formless
from the shapeless
from the air?

from the air, "i rise"
probably tired.
another late night, eh?
let me fall.

from the air
"i rise with my" recently "red"
but now brown with blonde streaks
and wax, lots of wax.
let me fall.

from the air, "i rise with my hair"
let down and falling
(the pins pulled out).
even when i'm falling, i can,
"and" i do, i, now listen, i...

"i eat men"

and boys,
but only the cute ones,
or the ones who apologize,
or the color-blind,
or the ones who can't disco,
"like air," sylvia said.

so let them fall
and not me,

because i am from the air,
and there is no room for them here
in this bed of stars.

sheesh i'm bored.

waiting for the man with all the right tools to come.
And you?

5/6/02